


mhysa

by dropofrum (95echelon)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, BAMF Women, Blanket Permission, Brace yourselves, Daenerys is here to FUCK SHIT UP, Daenerys is here to FUCK YOU UP, F/M, Rhaegar is never born, because fuck him ugh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-24 00:48:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12001431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/95echelon/pseuds/dropofrum
Summary: Daenerys Stormborn was the King's first child, and on the night she was born, her father named her Heir to the Seven Kingdoms.Sixteen years later, when the Mad King Aerys screamed to 'Burn them! Burn them all!' Jaime Lannister swung his sword a fraction too late.King's Landing burned. And from the ashes, the Mother of Dragons arose.





	mhysa

**Author's Note:**

> I've fucked around with their ages massively, because why not. Also, I wrote this in one breath, basically, at 4 am like, three months ago. Be kind, my dudes.

The oldest child of King Aerys, the one he named heir to the Iron Throne, was a girl, with pale, white-gold hair and dark, indigo eyes. They called her Daenerys Stormborn.

When she was born, gifts poured from across the known realms, silks and sweets, tapestries from Myr and perfume from Qarth, each one more exotic and splendid than the last. 

A gift, too, arrived from the Magister of Pentos. A fine oaken case, bearing three dragon eggs from Valyria. 

* * *

Sixteen years later, when the Mad King Aerys screamed to _'Burn them! Burn them all!'_ Jaime Lannister swung his sword a fraction too late. 

King's Landing burned. And from the ashes, the Mother of Dragons arose. 

* * *

**RHAELLA & VISERYS**

**Four.**

Mother was quiet today, as quiet as Viserys was loud. It seemed like every time he screamed, she fell even more silent, frowning and turning paler. Daenerys hated to watch it, the way her mother's arms shook each time she picked the babe. And he was only months old. 

They had held a tourney when _he_ was born, an enormous, otherworldly affair at Storm's End, with jousting and melees and dances and mummers. There had been roasts from Slaver's Bay, and singers from Narth, strangely garbed foreigners from the near-mythical shores of Qarth, and dark-skinned men who laughed with booming ease from the Summer Isles. Lord Lyan Stark had come from the north, and Lord Jon Arryn from the east, and these two she remembers the clearest, for the long evenings they had spent in the royal pavilion, plying the princess and the Queen with exaggerated stories of battle and flagons upon flagons of the finest wines from the Arbor. Dany had never seen the queen blush so prettily, or laugh so well. 

They hadn't held a tourney for _her,_ though, not for Daenerys, and she was the heir!

"Why can't someone _else_ nurse _him?"_ She had yet to say his name out loud, and he’d been around for ninety-four days now. _Viserys._ It was a stupid name. 

Queen Rhaella sighed, and Daenerys squirmed guiltily in her chair. Lunch was always in the Maidenhall, in the queen’s quarters, come rain or shine - and it was nearly always shine, here in King's Landing, blistering, blinding hot. Daenerys _loved_ it - but gods! She wanted to go out! Run through the gardens, and feed her pretty new mare, and find out when the Lannisters would arrive. Cersei was young, yet - only three - but she followed Daenerys around like a faithful little acolyte and Dany _loved_ her, her and Jaime both. Why couldn't _they_ have been her blood? Why'd she get stuck with whingy, stupid  _Viserys?_ It wasn't _fair!_

"What are our words, Daenerys?" Mother always called her Daenerys. Or, when she was particularly angered, ' _daughter_ '. Mother was always so _proper._ Not father, never father. Father tossed her in the air and tickled her tummy and called her ‘my little dragon!' like he was always shocked with happiness to see her crash into his waiting arms. 

“Fire and blood," Dany replied dutifully. 

“Fire and blood,” mother agreed. “Our fire. Our blood.” She gestured to her bared breast. “Our milk. The royal line must not be sullied."

Daenerys fought the urge to roll her eyes. _Cersei_ was already being matched to the Highgarden heir. _Cersei’s_ mama certainly didn’t think _their_ line would be sullied, and Joanna had been a Lannister before she’d married too, just like Rhaella had been a Targaryen. But Dany didn’t point this out. Mother already looked grey and exhausted, as Viserys noisily suckled at the teat, like he was sucking out her life along with her milk. Daenerys stared angrily at the babe, before gasping, “Mother!"

“What is it, Daenerys?”

_Daenerys,_ she said, like speaking to her own daughter was some unbearable chore. 

“You’re- You’re hurt!” There was an enormous purpling bruise just below her breast, tracing the ribs in angry blue-black lines, a matching one looped around the high point of her arm, where it reached her shoulder, nakedly visible through the parted gown. Dany glared at- gods, at her _brother_. “Did _he_ do this?"

The queen drew a sharp, horrified breath. “Who?” she asked.

Dany stuck out an accusing finger, as Viserys unlatched and begin to squall like the little tyrant he was. “Him,” she said, wrathful. She was going to _end_ him.

“Oh, Dany,” the queen sighed, and she gaped at her mother. _Dany?_ “It wasn’t your _brother_ who hurt me. Of course it wasn’t."

* * *

**CERSEI**

**Nine.**

“He’s doing it wrong,” Cersei announced authoritatively. They were watching the knights practice again - of late, it had become the best thing to do around the Keep, as the days got hotter and longer, and the Kingsguard took to practicing in naught but their breeches, their eyes bright with fierce joy, their bare chests gleaming with exertion.

Cersei, of course, was only eight, but men already watched her. With her golden hair and emerald eyes and amber skin, she was like a jewel mined from the dark earth of Casterly Rock. And when the Targeryen princess was with her - _why_ , Dany thought, with a smug surge of victory, _the men_ never _looked away from them at all._

Cersei had taken to critiquing the men the way she did everything - all confidence and aplomb. 

“Oh he’s doing it _wrong_ , is he?” Dany drawled, the way she’d sometimes heard Father do, before setting down an upstart Lord. “And you should know, _Ser_  Cersei."

“I do know,” Cersei informed her, smirking. “I’ve had _lessons."_

Dany gasped. “In swordplay? You have not!"

Cersei smiled that cat-like smile of hers, like she’d hidden away cream somewhere.

“How?” _Dany_ wanted lessons. Dany _desperately_ wanted lessons.

“I pretended to be Jaime."

_Seven bleeding hells, now there was a trick. Where was Dany supposed to produce a_ twin __from?__

* * *

**JAIME & CERSEI (& the Imp)**

**Ten.**

The year Jaime Lannister arrived at King's Landing, to foster with the Royal family, was the year everything changed. Historians wouldn't recall that year but for the several small tourneys hosted in Dorne and the birth of Tyrion Lannister, but Daenerys remembered it, like it had been forged in steel and emblazoned on her soul. It was the year Joanna Lannister had died, pushing her last, monstrous child out of her body. 

There was already promise to Jaime Lannister, she noted absently, as he rode in through the gates, this heir of the West, in the breadth of his shoulders and his bold, patrician features, even if he wore that promise awkwardly at ten, limbs too long and a nose he had yet to grow into. When the Lannister party had begun to arrive at Red Keep, Daenerys and Cersei stood together, hands tightly intertwined. They had spent the night together too, Dany sitting up, and Cersei curled in her lap as her whole body shook with wretched, heart-breaking sobs. They looked like death warmed over, today, in the harsh sunlight, deep purple shadows under their eyes and their skin like the ghosts of the Keep's catacombs. 

When he dismounted, eyes squinted against the sun, seeking- seeking- 

Cersei broke away from the line with a helpless, fractured sound, throwing herself into her twin's arms. He staggered, but he caught himself, holding her to him like they would never part. Not _ever_ , not for _anything_. 

Daenerys hated herself, even as jealousy ate her up, acid in her gut like wildfire. What she would have done, for a Jaime of her own. What she _wouldn't_ have done. 

It was _his_ fault, Cersei would say, late at night, when she, Jaime and Dany stole away to the highest tower of the Maidenhall, laying on the roof, beneath the stars, sipping Arbor wine Jaime had nicked from the cellars. _His_ fault, Cersei would say, never taking his name as she gulped wine like water. 

Jaime and Dany never spoke when she was like this. And secretly, Dany agreed with her. What was the _point_ of little brothers? She tossed back her wine, too. _Nothing,_ that's what. 

She'd simply have to find a way to keep the Lannisters here, where she could keep them safe, untouched by the world. She drank, and she plotted. 

* * *

**AERYS**

**Thirteen.**

Daenerys escaped her lessons early that day. Viserys was still struggling with his Dornish, but not _her_. They had both taken to High Valyrian like ducks to water, and had sent mother into transports of joy - waxing on and bloody on about how her children were linguistic savants, but all that had come to a screeching halt when they'd started on the other languages. 

It was a special kind of joy, to know she was better than _him._

She smiled happily, as she walked through the gardens, the fragrance of newly bloomed hyacinths heavy in the air, sweet and rich and lovely, following the sound of deep, tired voices in the King's Alcove. 

Father was sprawled back in his chair, eyes closed, hair spread silver-white against scarlet cushions, a goblet of Dornish red precariously hanging between his heavily beringed fingers. Tywin Lannister, Hand of the King, leaned towards him on a seat pulled close to the monarch, speaking low and urgent. 

"...unrest, your grace, that must be summarily _quelled_. The Starks and Tullys and Baratheons foment even now, matching children in powerful alliances. We must _act-_ pardon me, princess. Is something a-matter?"

Daenerys curtseyed, smiling. "None at all, Lord Hand. I merely wished to visit with the King, but if you are busy..." She trailed off, watching Father lever himself off the chair with visible effort. 

"Never for you, little dragon," King Aerys said gruffly. "Off with you, Lord Hand. Our princess has demanded audience." Dany giggled at the twinkle in her father's eye, trying not to mind the sluggish movement of his limbs. 

When they were alone, Dany tucked herself in the chair next to Father. 

"Is everything alright, papa?" 

"Yes, child. I sleep poorly, is all," he says, and Daenerys feels a frisson of pride curl in her chest. She is her papa's closest confidante, and to no one else, not even Mother, would he admit such frailty. _We are the dragon made flesh, and fire shall never touch us._

"You work too hard, papa. You must _rest_."

"Ah, my dear. If only the Seven Kingdoms would run themselves, aye?" He chuckles tiredly, presses a quick kiss to her temple, tucking her closer still, patting her shoulder. "But the Small Council summons their King, and a greater pack of craven, back-stabbing buffoons I have yet to see. The crown rests heavy, my dear."

"You cannot attend a Council meeting now!" she protests, worriedly. 

"Oh? And what do you suggest?"

"You will rest," she commands. "I shall manage the Council."

" _Will you._ " His voice is sharper than knives. Dany flinches and looks up at him, shocked. 

"Papa?"

A haze has overtaken his eyes, sleep and drink conspiring to dull his senses. " _Blue eyes_ ," he hisses, and an expression of such vitriol crosses his face, that Dany snatches herself away from him, stumbling to the ground, staring at her father's face, contorted into a snarl as he whispers, " _Blue eyes!"_

_"_ Papa?"

"Dany?" The King blinks rapidly. "What are you doing down there?"

"Oh," she says, her voice trembling. "Just slipped father. I think i might've nodded off..."

"Yes," he replies, slowly. "Yes, I think I did too. Go on, child. I must... I must..."

"Yes, father," she agrees, hastily curtseying and scampering out of the garden, headed towards the Council's chamber. 

_Blue eyes,_ the hiss follows her, a malevolent serpent of rage coiling around her limbs and setting her heart to frenzy. _Blue eyes._

_What in the seven hells is wrong with the King?_

* * *

**JAIME**

He looks better with every passing year. He's nearly thirteen now, but the training yard has had a marvelous effect, and Jaime Lannister could easily pass for a rather handsome fifteen. 

"They say Cersei's match with the Tyrell boy is all but certain," Dany remarks, examining the knives in the armory as Jaime patiently hones his blade. “They say they’re only waiting for her fifteenth name day now."

"They say the Queen’s escaping to Dragonstone yet again," Jaime retorts, but Dany shrugs it off. She's been drinking and plotting all month. “They wonder why she always goes alone, unaccompanied."

"Do you approve of the match?"

She watches his jaw harden, with satisfaction. "It's not my place to approve, _or_ disapprove. She will marry for the honor of our family, your grace." He runs the whetstone harshly, a screech of metal on granite. "As will I."

"Such a strange institution, marriage," Dany muses, picking out a dagger and flipping it easily, maneuvering it between her fingers, quick and honed and deadly. "Do you know, there are only two reasons a man in Westeros can be forbidden to marry?"

Jaime doesn't reply, but there is no smooth ring of the whetstone either, so she smiles a secret smile, and continues in that idle tone. 

"Only two reasons. If he joins the Night's Watch, or if he is appointed to the Kingsguard." She runs a finger along the blade, and her fingertip comes away red. "Isn't that odd?"

"What is your point?" the boy bites out, and Dany turns just enough to see the hard, ruddy flush that has risen to his cheeks. _Transparent_ , she thinks, and swallows a laugh. _He's utterly transparent._

"Oh Jaime, nothing at all, my dear. Nothing at all." She tucks the dagger between the folds of her gown, and walks away. 

(Cersei has been watching Jaime, and Jaime has been watching Cersei. Dany has been watching them both.)

* * *

**SER BARRISTAN**

**Interlude.**

Jaime walks up to the most renowned of the Kingsguard. "I need to train harder," the boy says. 

The knight frowns at him. "You've proved yourself, boy, and then some. Rest your bones."

He snorts. "I'll rest when I'm dead," he retorts, with that arrogance of youth Selmy can barely recall. "I _need_ to train."

There's something about the way he says it, fire in his eyes like he's haunted by something. "How much did _you_ train?" he demands. "Only as much as I? Or harder?"

"Harder," the good Ser admits. 

"I need to train like that."

Barristan looks in the boy's eyes, and for a brief moment, he sees himself. The helplessness, the anger, the drive to _learn_ , and then, how could he not acquiesce? "Very well," he says, and relief straightens the boy's spine. "Pick up your sword. Guard yourself."

And Ser Barristan attacks. 

* * *

**VARYS**

**Fifteen.**

"We bleed money like a stuck pig, and you have nothing to say?" Daenerys snarls. "Are you my Master of Coin or not, my lord?"

"Taxes," the fool stutters, coloring splotchily. "We can raise the taxes-"

"Which my people will pay from what money? From their empty pockets?" she spits. "Certainly the Lords of Westeros will not _touch_ their own coffers. Why put their money where it will run like sand through the Crown's fingers?"

The man splutters, and Dany slams the table. "Useless," she snaps, rising to pace the hall. 

She scans the table. _Craven, back-stabbing buffoons,_ Father had said, and by the gods, Dany agrees with him now, now that the H. She misses Tywin's tempering presence like- like- well, like a missing hand. 

"Varys," she says, forcing a milder tone. "You have traveled far beyond the Seven Kingdoms, have you not?"

"Indeed, your grace," the eunuch replies, bowing his head. His jowls flap like a basset hound's when he speaks, giving him a strangely ponderous, trustworthy appearance. 

"In all your travels, at all the ports at which you have docked," she says, carefully considering her words, "which businesses turned the greatest profits?"

"Your grace?" Varys asks, a notch in his brow.

Well, well. Apparently, even spiders can be surprised in their webs. 

"Speak, Varys. I haven't the luxury of time."

"I- I- do not believe the answer would be... Ah, appropriate. For your ears, your grace. Beg your pardon."

Dany frowns. "Inappropriate? How so?"

The master of laws snorts now. "Whorehouses, your grace,” he says, smugly, hoping for a reaction of maidenly horror. "The whores bring the most coin.” Well, he’s shit out of luck today, as Jaime would say.

Varys inclines his neck in agreement. "Just so, your grace. And the ale houses. Even when the money runs dry, men want to drink and men want to fuck." The obscenity sounds harmless, when it rolls off his tongue. Varys is such a curious one. 

"Wonderful. Tell me, are there any laws barring the crown from engaging in trade?"

Velaryon inhales sharply. "Your _grace_ ," he snaps. "You cannot mean to- to- to do this."

"Do what, my lord?" she drawls. "To trade in whores?"

He flushes, but he perseveres. "Just so. You cannot!"

She lowers her voice as he raises his. "You presume too much," she says, ice in her veins, fire in her blood. "Careful, careful now. One of is a Targaryen, my lord, and one of us is... _Disposable_."

* * *

**AERYS & the SMALL COUNCIL**

“The princess, the princess, _the princess!_ ” Aerys roars, slamming his fists on the table. “I’m sick of hearing of your marvelous, Seven-damned princess! I am _King_ , not a bloody whoremonger! Shut it down!"

The door to the Council opens, and the Seven-damned princess sweeps in, dressed in a column on ivory white, sunlight glancing off her coronet like a halo. She cocks her head at the King, where his face has turned purple-red in rage, spit flecking the corners of his mouth. “Hello, Father,” she remarks casually. “I heard you call?"

“Whores!” he yells. "And ale! Are you going to make a laughingstock of your name, you idiot child?"

Daenerys smiles placidly. “I’d rather us mocked than starved, Father dearest. Honor doesn’t feed an empty stomach."

“You- you conniving _bitch!_ You think yourself so clever, don’t you?” He laughs, the sound booming and empty of warmth, stalking to her. “But I see you. I see through you. You’re not a dragon. You’re a _snake."_

“A well- _fed_ snake,” Dany agrees, searching for her father in the harsh lines of this stranger’s face. She finds none, and tears well in her eyes. “Oh papa,” she whispers, shakily cupping his bony jaw. “What happened to you? What did you see?"

The King screams, and wraps his hand around her neck, and slams her against the wall. Daenerys blacks out.

_Blue eyes_ , whispers the nightmare. __Blue eyes.__

* * *

**RHAELLA**

Only Mother is there when Dany awakens, working at her embroidery with smooth and steady hands. A purpling splotch marks the high cheekbone, and Dany's stomach turns with horror. 

It seems the King wants for another heir. Unsurprising, Dany thinks, given how disappointed he is with the two he has. 

"Hello, Mother," Dany tries to say, but barely a croak goes past her lips, before she doubling up in agony, fire racing through her gut as she clutches at her neck. 

"He choked you," the Queen concludes flatly. "He seems to have developed a taste for it," she says, and Dany notes the high neck of her mother's gown, even now, at the very height of summer. 

She recalls suddenly, the bruises she'd glimpsed when the queen had nursed Viserys. _It was him,_ she thinks and gapes at mother. How long has the King's madness been hidden from the realm? How long has he- oh, Seven help her. Who is this man she thought she knew? 

"Yes," Queen Rhaella says, understanding perfectly the horror on her face. "You see now. He is mad; quite, _quite_ mad. And one day, his madness shall take us all." She rises, draping her embroidery over an arm, her face devoid of any expression. _Proper_ , Dany had once thought her, but realizes what it is now, this mask her mother wears. _This is her armor._

"Sleep well, my Daenerys. And stay away from your father. You do _not_ wish to wake the dragon."

* * *

**VARYS**

**Interlude.**

There is a knock, a special knock, two raps-pause-one rap-pause-two raps. This comes on his door, late that night, after he has been assured that the princess is swiftly recovering from the afternoon's ordeal. 

She is a strange one, the princess. She will bear watching. 

A notes slides in, from under the door. A message from a highborn, the knock means. 

Varys picks it up, noting the heavy, smooth grain of the parchment, not unlike the kind that sits in the Royal apartments. Curiosity makes his heart skip, and trepidation too. There are only two sentences, written in a scholar's hand, clear and precise and elegant. 

_I'd rather they called me the whoremongering princess today, than the beggar Queen_ ___tomorrow_ _. Do what your King says, but the profits earned thus far, you will forward to me._

The note is slick, dipped in some sort of fluid. Varys frowns, and then the paper, with no warning, bursts into flame. He yelps, and drops it to the ground, watching it curl into ash and smoke. 

* * *

**VISERYS**

**Sixteen.**

"What are you doing?!" Viserys shouts, as she exits the chamber for the Small Council, long after the others have left. 

"Contemplating the wheat harvest, little brother," Dany informs him truthfully. "And you?"

He doesn't expect that. "You- Daenerys, you need to _stop_ attending these meetings."

She laughs. "Oh wouldn't that be a lark? Child, if I turned around for half a second, Tywin Lannister will have the crown indebted to him to our last bloody sovereign, before you could say Casterly Rock."

"But- but- He's the _Hand!"_

"Aye. For as long as it's convenient for _him_ to be the Hand."

"He's supposed to be loyal to the crown!" Viserys explodes, and gods, the child is trying. 

"And I'm supposed to be dreaming of Knights, and the king is supposed to be sane, and _you_ \- you are supposed to somewhere else."

"What? Where?"

Trying, and stupid to boot. _This_ is the Targaryen line? This is what her parents are so desperate to not _'sully'?_ Seven hells, they could _do_ with some sullying. 

"Wherever I'm not, Viserys. Go away."

"I can't! I'm telling you, you need to stop!"

"And I am telling you, I cannot! Our people starve, at the height of summer, and the lords hoard grain like greedy squirrels. There are more beggars and bastards than whores in our capital, and there's too many whores to begin with! The Dornish mistrust us, the Free Cities don't want to trade, the lords loathe the Targaryens, the Night's Watch loses more men to wildlings’ raids than ever in a hundred years, and the King! Is! Mad!" Viserys gapes, and Dany feels molten satisfaction blaze through her. “Our father is _mad._ So," she snarls, grasping him by the chin to force his gaze up, "Don't tell me I cannot attend the small council’s meetings. I have no fucking choice."

Viserys meets her gaze steadily. "I'm glad you're saving the orphans, your grace," he says quietly, and with such dignity Daenerys thinks for a moment she is speaking to the Queen Herself. "Because for each time that you've sat with the Council, Father has bruised Mother's ribs so badly, now she can't barely even breathe. She's going to spend the rest of the _year_ at Dragonstone. 

"Remember that, won't you, when the whores sing your praises? Remember that it is our mother who must pay the steepest price."

It is hard to believe, in that moment, that Prince Viserys is only twelve. 

* * *

**TYWIN**

There is no place in King's Landing quite like the Alcove; no place quite as silent, as beautiful, as _private_. 

Dany drinks, and she plots, and the King's Hand does the same beside her. But not as quietly, she muses, and more's the pity. 

"The Lord of Duskendale has decided to stop payments to the Crown."

She knows this; just as she knows that it's her Hand's fault. "Yes. We hear he wishes for autonomy. A town charter of independence, much like the one accorded to the Martells."

Tywin frowns at her. 

_Yes, Lord Hand. I have ears in many places too. The whores of King's Landing love their princess._  

"Indeed, your grace," Lannister says, masking his curiosity rather poorly. "King's Landing's prosperity has come at the cost of Blackwater's decline, or so Lord Denys thinks."

Daenerys snorts. "And so I am to give him a charter? A Dorne in my own backyard?" She laughs, hollow as the heart in her chest. "Not bloody likely."

"What do you propose, princess?"

"I shall meet with this lord. He must be reminded of his duty, don't you think?"

"To be sure, Princess. There is more. The Baratheons have grown bolder, your grace. Even as we speak, ravens fly between Storm's End and Winterfell, all to orchestrate a match between the two houses. Lady Robin has come of age, and they say she is a beauty."

Oh. Oh my, _finally._ Daenerys has been waiting for this moment for so long; it seems like an eon has passed since the time she was fourteen, laying on the roof of the Maidenhall, positively sotted on a pink from the Arbor. 

"The crown is not without allies, Lord Hand," Dany drawls, not quite looking at him. She doesn't think she could mask the gleam in her eye. 

"As you say, your grace," Tywin says deferentially. They're all deference, these days, the small Council. "Then where are these royal friends, your grace? Why do they not warn you of unrest in the Crownlands? Why is the maester not inundated in birds, Princess, with dire warnings and reminders of allegiance? _Where are your allies?"_

Daenerys looks at him, and smiles slowly. "It is my father who must approve new alliances, my lord. And as for my friends, why, they are sitting right beside me."

Tywin Lannister is no fool, thank the Seven. He takes her meaning; he smiles back. And Dany drinks. 

* * *

**THE KING & THE HAND**

**Interlude.**

"They plot treason, your grace. They would see your House razed to the ground."

"Yes," Aerys mutters, shivering and trembling as he rapidly paces the council's chamber, in circles, circles, always circles. "The throne. They want the throne."

Aerys stares out the window, spit dribbling down the side of his mouth, robes stained with wine, hair in frightful disarray. This is their king. 

" _My throne!_ " Aerys screams at nothing. 

"Indeed, your grace. We should like to keep it that way."

" _How?_ " the King hisses, staring, unseeing. 

"Alliances, your grace. We have sons and daughters, each. Let us join our houses."

"Marriage? Marry Lannister to Targaryen?"

"Yes."

"You dare- _You dare-"_

"The princess agrees, your grace. This is the safest solution we can devise."

The king cries incoherently. "Take her name once more," he screeches. " _Princess, princess_ \- Fuck your precious bloody Princess! _I_ am your king!"

Tywin tenses. He had expected reluctance, but this... "And does my king approve of the offer of my children?"

"HE DOES NOT! _Out. GET OUT!"_ As Lord Tywin storms out, jaw hard as steel, the Mad King's accusations follow him, a hail of fiery arrows. "TRAITOR!" shrieks the King, spit flying from his mouth as he rages. __"TRAITOR!"__

* * *

**CERSEI**

"You did this."

Dany doesn't try denying it. What would be the point? She lounges back as maids scurry through the rooms, packing Cersei's trunks for the long march home. Lord Tywin has been removed from his position as Hand, and somewhere Daenerys' plan has gotten rather thoroughly _fucked_. 

"You're jealous, aren't you?" Cersei says, relentless. "You wanted him for _yourself_. You wanted Jaime for yourself."

"Is that what you think, child?"

Her beautiful face contorts with fury. "I," she says, drawing herself to her full height, "am not a child! And the King means to hold my brother _hostage!"_

Dany stares at Cersei, the bored, quelling gaze she's borrowed from Rhaella, the one that put Dany in her place a thousand times as a petulant child. Cersei's gaze wavers. Her shoulders tremble, but she stands. 

_Such a brave child,_ Dany thinks, her heart aching for the sister she has lost because of her stupid, stupid plans. But there are no brave children in King's Landing; only dead ones, and the ones who lived long enough to become cruel themselves.

"I love him," Cersei confesses. "I love no one as I do him." 

_Transparent,_ and Dany wants to _shake_ her for being so open. _Hide your heart, you fool,_ she wants to say, _or they'll rip it in half._

"Child," she says, tired beyond measure, "you may not believe me, but I know. If not for our gracious king, I would have kept Jaime by your side for the rest of your life. And I would have made you Queen."

She walks out, head held high. It won't do to be seen weak, not now- Now that they have begun to play the game of thrones in earnest, she and the king. 

And it seems Aerys has drawn first blood. 

* * *

**RHAELLA**

"My council tells me you leave for Dragonstone on the morrow."

The Queen gasps and whirls around, as Dany enters her rooms, garbed in a long, flowing robe of lavender silk and creamy Myrish lace. There are trunks open behind the Queen, only two, fabric spilling out their sides. Dany walks to them, kneeling beside them. Furs, she notes, furs and cloaks and heavy-knit wools. 

"I didn't know Dragonstone was so cold this time of summer, your grace," Daenerys says quietly, carding her fingers through pale, soft ermine and darker, coarser bear. 

"I- I- Oh, Daenerys," Rhaella cries, her voice helpless and soft. 

"Is it Dragonstone you go to, mother, every year?"

The queen does not reply, but that is reply enough. Dany looks up, surveys her. Her gown is high-collared today, but not high enough to hide her pallor, the yellow-green bruises that cover the side of her jaw, bruises that make Dany's stomach turn horribly, warring with guilt and anger and helplessness and such terrible, _terrible_ fear. 

She rises, takes Rhaella's small, soft hands in her own, realizing she is taller than her mother now, if only by an inch. "Mother," she says, gently, as if the lady is a nervous, excitable filly. "Do they make you happy, these trips to... Ah, _Dragonstone_?"

Rhaella looks up at her finally, wonder in her eyes, and Dany shoves away the stab of hurt at that follows her mother's surprise. Does her mother think her a monster? Does her brother, too?

"Yes," she whispers. "Very much so."

Daenerys smiles carefully, squeezing those soft, fragile hands. "Then I am glad."

She presses a kiss to her mother's forehead, sending an errant prayer to the Seven. _Keep her safe, Mother and Father and Stranger. Keep her safe._

Knowing her welcome is ever short in the queen's apartments, she steps away, and ducks a little curtsey. When she nearly at the door, Rhaella calls her name, her voice quivering. 

"Someday," she says, cautious joy in her words, when Dany turns around to her, "Someday, if you would come with me... There is someone I'd like you to meet."

"Oh?"

Rhaella nods eagerly, like a child. "His name is Jon. He turns twelve next week."

Daenerys stiffens, heart thudding madly, but these years with the Council have served her well and she keeps her smile in place, gentle and welcoming. "I would be honored to meet him, Mother." She curtseys once more and walks out, forcing her pace into measure. 

Viserys turned twelve precisely ten months ago. 

Perhaps history will one day recall, but for now, it is only Dany who remembers a tourney long ago, when he brother was newly born, barely a month old, when her queen mother had spent long, lazy summer days in the company of dark, dashing Lyan Stark. 

_And fair, handsome_ Jon _Arryn. Lord of the Eyrie._

The next day, the Princess departs the Keep as well, with a small contingent of the City Watch, accorded by the Watch Commander for her protection. 

They make for Duskendale. For Lord Denys and his foreigner wife, the Lady Serala; for the turmoil and shadow they would cast on the dusk ere her reign. 

A night before they reach their destination, they are ambushed. Men in armor, castle-forged armor, burst through the dark forests through which the road cuts, dismembering their horses and garrotting her guard. There is a brief, vertiginous moment when she is snatched from the saddle, and surrounded by cold metal, a hot, fetid breath panting near her neck, gown ripping along the seam of her shoulder. "Welcome to Duskendale, princess," the voice gleefully whispers, followed by a sharp, blinding sensation of something slamming against her ear. She sees stars, she sees her men bleed, her horses spasm and whinny in terror, foaming pink at the bridle. 

And then, thanks be to small mercies, she sees nothing more.

**Author's Note:**

> hit kudos, ye kneelin' crybaby.
> 
> (please.)


End file.
